Fifty Cents For Your Soul Page 2

  “How old are you, Miss Rose?”

  Bonnie had said Mrs. C would need the date and time of my birth. A preemie, I had arrived one month earlier than anticipated, which had set the precedent for a life span of infractions. Mom remembered pain, not time, but Daddy knew the exact second ‑‑ and now Mrs. C did, too.

  “I see good fortune for you,” she said, “the answer to all your dreams. Cameras and film. You are an actress.”

  She pronounce it “ecktriss,” but I couldn’t determine if her accent was genuine or fake. In any case, “ecktriss” was a safe guess. Who else would be visiting Frank Baum’s Wicked Witch of the West Side at eleven o’clock in the morning? Who else would be spending grocery money on a psychic who perused daily horoscopes?

  “If you keep to your present path,” she said, “you will reach the top of your field. Right now I see contracts and money. Lots of money. But be careful. There are negative forces jealous of your success.”

  “Money? Success? How soon?”

  “Everything will begin to happen in a festive atmosphere. I see cameras and people. Travel. Romance with a tall, dark ‑‑”

  “My boyfriend is blonde, Germanic. Hitler could have used him as a poster boy.”

  “Romance with a tall, dark man.” She scowled, and her brooch stone swirled purple and red. “Keep your faith at all times because there are forces trying to tear you down. Demonic forces.”

  Her jewel blinked like a stoplight, and my breath caught in my throat as I remembered that alexandrite stones might change color but they didn’t blink like stoplights. My father was a jewelry salesman. I had cut my teeth, so to speak, on polished gems. What the hell kind of stone was this woman wearing?

  “Trust to whatever forces you believe in,” she continued. “You must see both sides of what you are doing in order to take the right path. Satan wears many disguises and can easily fool you. Some people think the devil doesn’t exist, just as some people think God is dead. It’s your choice, Miss Rose.”

  Mrs. Carvainis droned on and on about my past. Generalities. Stuff about how I tried hard but wasn’t appreciated. Still wrapped in my protective shield of disbelief, I decided she was playing upon my insecurities as an “ecktriss.” Until she said something very strange.

  “You were named for your grandmother. You are an only child, but there was another. Stillborn.”

  Wrong and wrong. Named for my great-grandmother, I had been C-sectioned from my mother’s womb exactly eight months after her marriage. She had been a virgin until her wedding night, and I’ve been told at least a million times, by Mom, that my birth almost killed her. I’ve also been told ‑‑ a million times ‑‑ not to exaggerate, but one thing is certain. During my please-please-make-me-a-brother-or-sister-phase, Mom said she could never have another child.

  So how come my Wicked Witch of the West had pulled that rabbit from her pseudo- crystal ball? And how come I desperately wanted to question such a strange assumption, but, instead, clammed up?

  Dismissing the past, Mrs. Carvainis reached for a pack of Tarot cards. I knew, from Bonnie, that Tarot was subject to numerous methods of interpretation, but all readings involved the questioner, the interpreter, and the cards. Sometimes the questioner asked her questions aloud for the interpreter to hear, at other times not. This was a not. Sometimes the interpreter had the questioner shuffle cards, at other times she did it herself. Mrs. C shuffled herself. And dealt.

  Shit, I didn’t want to play card games. So why didn’t I run like hell?

  Because there, right there on the table, lay the Death card!

  Mrs. C pointed out an abundance of Pinnacles, portending financial matters, forecasting personal advancement.

  With a shaky finger, I gestured toward the Death card.

  “That card may imply change or mishap,” she said, “rather than physical death.”

  “Oh, my God! Am I going to have a mishap?”

  “Trust to whatever forces you believe in,” she repeated. “‘I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith.’ New Testament.”

  “‘The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose,’” I blurted without thinking. One of my really bad habits is combating quotes with quotes. But since I’d already opened mouth, inserted foot, I continued. “That’s from Shakespeare’s Merchant of Venice. By the way, Mrs. Carvainis, do you believe in spirits? Fairies? Elves?”

  “Doppelgangers,” she said, her brooch the color of blood.

  My skin felt goosebumpy. Doppelgangers ‑‑ ghostly counterparts of living persons. The Jewish equivalent would be dybbukim; souls who enter (and control!) a person’s body until exorcised by a religious rite. My stupnagel cousin Charlene had told me all about doppelgangers and dybbukim. I had been knee-high to a Munchkin, and Charlene had scared me to death.

  Shaking off the memory, I said, “I believe in fairies. Land of Nod. Oz. Middle Earth. And yet when I saw J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan, I thought Tinkerbell was a jealous little twit. I rooted for Captain Hook.”

  Mrs. C smiled for the first time. A gold tooth winked from her left incisor section. “‘The reason why birds can fly and we can’t is simply that they have faith, for to have faith is to have wings.’ J.M. Barrie.”

  Her brooch was now blue-gray, so it wasn’t an alexandrite. Alex stones never turn blue. It was probably a mood-ring brooch, absorbing heat from her blunted bosom.

  I finally asked the question I had come to ask. “Will I win an Academy Award?”

  Rising to her feet, my psychic glanced at her watch then nodded toward the living room. Even a stupnagel like my cousin Charlene would have understood that the session was over, finished, dead.

  “God bless,” Mrs. C said, in the same tone of voice she’d used for doppelgangers.

  Chapter Two

  Outside the Ansonia, rain splattered the pavement like hair spray from an aerosol can, and someone had discarded today’s newspaper. Fishing the Lifestyle section from the trash can, I scanned the soggy pages until I found Horoscopes.

  I’m an Aries.

  “No matter how daunting the challenges ahead of you,” I read aloud, raindrops beading my lashes, “no matter how tough the opposition you have to face, you will win with ease…you can feel it in your bones. The sun moves into your birth sign on Friday and your courage and confidence have never been higher, and as Mars, your ruler, aspects Venus, planet of Love, your passion is pretty impressive, too. Look out, world, you’re on your way.”

  Today was Wednesday. I smootched the paper into a ball and Michael Jordan-ed it toward the trash can. Net shot! You can feel it in your bones? My bones felt wet as I raced a bus to the corner, and won.

  Bonnie had decided we’d meet at our health club following what I had dubbed my “psychic-pathic” appointment. Bonnie wanted to hear every detail. Pinnacles and Wands, I thought, and Death.

  No. Mishap. What exactly did mishap mean?

  Stumbling onto the bus, I scanned its occupants for serial killers. Several passengers mumbled into cell phones. Quite a few had their noses buried in books. I could see covers; bestsellers by Sue Grafton, Fran Baker, Susan Isaacs, Stephen King and Victoria Alexander. There was one vacant seat, next to a man who looked nontoxic. As I belly-danced past his knees, he kept his gaze focused upon the thick paperback he cradled between his legs.

  From my window seat, I watched tall buildings kaleidoscope by.

  Then, suddenly, the rain stopped. Luminary streams bounced off walls of glass that sparkled like zircons. Reaching into my meager cleavage, I retrieved the sunglasses that still dangled from the vee of my shirt.

  The convex lenses darkened my window-world, so I began to compose rap lyrics, using the multiple cell phone conversations as my background music. I had finished Psychedelic psychics rule the world, what the fuck got into you, girl? and was working on Mars is your ruler, Venus your passion, Fire is your Sun sign, you wasted your cash on…when the bus stopped and a young, light-skinned black woman swayed down the
aisle. Switching a pet carrier from one hand to the other, she searched for a nonexistent seat.

  The man in the seat next to mine looked up from his book, glanced at the black woman, then stared at me. His eyes were opaque, devoid of any expression, as if he’d been hypnotized. “Gotta go,” he said.

  I thought he meant the bathroom because he squirmed the same way one squirms when one has to go to the bathroom and one is stranded on a city bus. But then he said, “Yes, okay, no problem.”

  He stomped to the exit door and tried to walk through it. The bus kept moving, but the man acted like an agitated bird trapped inside a house, beating its wings and beak against a window. In this case, the man beat his arms and face against the door. The bus driver slid to the curb, slammed on his brakes, and opened the door. The “birdman” exited onto West 56th Street, the bus driver said something about crazy-nuts, and the bus began to roll again.

  At the same time, I yelled, “Hey, Mister, you forgot your book!”

  Snatching it up, I held it against the window, a useless gesture. The man had vanished, as if he’d never existed.

  Depicted on the paperback’s shiny red cover was a demon’s face and the words FOREVER ASMODEUS by S.B. EISENBERG.

  Forever Asmodeus had climbed to the top of the Times bestseller list, first as a hardcover, then a paperback. Should I turn it over to the bus driver? Did the bus station have a lost and found? Would “Birdman” retrieve his lost property? Or had he disappeared into The Mysterious Bookshop, where he’d find another copy?

  My dilemma was momentarily forgotten when the black woman slid her extra-wide tush across the crazy man’s seat. Releasing the handles of the pet carrier, she settled it between her white socks and dilapidated sneakers.

  “Hi, I’m Frannie,” I blurted.

  Framed by glossy ringlets, my new seat-companion’s face was round, not oval, as if God or somebody had drawn it with a grade school pencil compass. Her coal-black eyes slanted at the corners while a smattering of freckles garnished her nose and cheeks. She wore a long brown skirt, fastened at the waist with a safety pin, and a white tee that stated IF THE RICH COULD HIRE OTHER PEOPLE TO DIE FOR THEM, THE POOR WOULD MAKE A WONDERFUL LIVING.

  Introducing oneself is not a Big Apple custom. Blame my gaffe on the T-shirt’s Jewish proverb. My father used to say that. A lot. On the other hand, my mother tends to ignore Hebrew prophets. Except during Yom Kippur. Or when she wants to lay a guilt trip on her nondenominational-by-choice daughter.

  Compounding my original sin, I said, “What’s your name?”

  “Tenia,” she replied.

  “Is that your cat inside the pet carrier, Tenia?”

  “Ain’t got no cat.”

  “I’ve got a cat. He’s a pain in the…”

  I meant to say ass, maybe tush, but the unorthodox cacophony that emerged from the pet carrier momentarily tied my tongue. A harsh hiss, then…castanets? Baby’s rattle?

  Staring at the carrier, I cleared my throat and whispered, “What’s that sound?”

  “Snake.”

  Had she really said snake? “Snake” didn’t sound anything like “dog” or “gerbil,” but I must have misunderstood. Then, despite the hum of cell phone babble, I heard the rrrrrr sound again.

  The bus screeched to a halt at my stop and opened its accordion doors. Tenia stood up to let me pass. “Sorry, excuse me, watch your toes,” I said, and could almost swear she gave me a Cheshire Cat smile. In other words, if a smile can be described as smug, Tenia’s was.

  Exiting into wet sunshine, I strolled toward The Spa’s awning-clad ramp. And nearly stumbled when I had a sudden thought: Holy shit, a snake!

  Picturing forked tongue and fangs filled with toxic Novocain, I wondered if I should call 911.

  Chapter Three

  Calling 911 sounded like a really dumb idea.

  After all, I hadn’t actually seen a snake.

  So I entered my health club and furtively slithered past the front desk, manned by two skinny nymphets. I couldn’t sign in and receive a free towel since I owed money. Not quite “this account has been turned over to a credit agency” money, but close.

  During a moment of idiotic impulse, induced by Happy Hour margaritas, Bonnie and I had filled out restroom coupons, good for one free week at The Spa. Bonnie had bought discount tights and leotard while I splurged my grocery budget on adorable workout clothes, aerobic sneakers, and leg warmers.

  Only one week to achieve miracles.

  The first day, a Hugh Hefner centerfold had measured and weighed me, then shook her head and smiled sadly. Wondering if she practiced her smile in the mirror, feeling like Old McDonald’s cow, I had signed up for three years. Bonnie, more prudent, had signed up for six months. To date, I had lost one pound and two inches. The two inches were in my breasts.

  A poster boy for natural-fiber extract leaned against the desk. Since his last name was two syllables longer than Schwarzenegger’s, I called him “Mr. Biceps.” He flirted with the nymphets, blocking their view. Hunching my head like a turtle’s, I rounded the corner, climbed multiple stairs, slipped through a door onto a running track, and stared down at a parquet floor that was partially carpeted with cinnabar-colored mats.

  Rock music blared from hidden speakers while the perpetual aerobics class stretched and grunted. Bonnie pointed one leg toward me and saluted with her toes. Her body glistened with sweat, but not one strand of her long blue-black hair looked mussed. When I aerobicized, I could swear Little Orphan Annie had reached puberty, screwed fight promoter Don King, and given me up for adoption.

  Except my hair is pale gold, not red-orange.

  Bonnie mouthed something that looked like, “Frannie. Gobbledy-talk-yoohoo. Hadda drimpk.”

  I nodded anyway and headed for the whirlpool.

  Secluded inside the “female” locker room, The Spa’s whirlpool is the size of a small pond. From behind sloping bucket seats, hot water jets spurt and blow like agitated whales.

  All other “females” were still conditioning their respiratory and circulatory systems with oxygen consumption, so the whirlpool was unoccupied. Its steamy fingers beckoned. Dropping my sweatshirt, sunglasses, and Forever Asmodeus onto a dry bench, I shed my blouse, boots, jeans and underwear. Then I slid into a seat and let pressurized bubbles soothe sore muscles and stressed shoulder blades.

  I turned, knelt, and grasped the whirlpool’s tiled edge with both hands. Thinking about success on the stage and my boyfriend Andre, I positioned myself so that the gush of hot water honeycombed the region between my spread legs. It felt like a monster tongue osculating.

  Baptismal masturbation, I thought, shuddering with orgasmic delight. Then I turned, leaned back against the seat, and closed my eyes.

  I see the answer to all your dreams. Cameras and film. You are an ecktriss.

  You betcha! I could have told Mrs. C about my first starring role. Creative nursery school. I had played Jill, tugging a reluctant Jack up a papier-mâché hill. Instead of breaking his crown, Jack wet his pants and fled the stage. Despite laughter from the audience, I finished my verse. Then, after the applause had died down, I tried to crush my partner’s unbroken head with our prop, a metal pail.

  Grade school. I played Martha Washington. A boy who stuttered was cast as George. Since the scene had been planned for seven minutes, I ad-libbed, stepping on his lines. Thus, we rewrote history and created the mother of our country.

  High school. While other kids took French or Spanish, I studied Southern. Triumphing over a classmate’s “relationship” with the director, I captured the role of Maggie in Cat On a Hot Tin Roof.

  Syracuse University. Two years, and I’d had my fill of cheering at football games, recuperating from my first, second and thirteenth hangovers, losing my virginity, and cramming for final exams. My best role was “Martha” again, this time in Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?

  I dropped out of college and performed six weeks’ worth of “bit part” on a soap. After that, I had
ten lines ‑‑ eleven if I paused in the delivery ‑‑ in an Off-Off-Broadway play. I did lots of movie-extra work. Pick a NY cop show, any show, and there’s me, looking horrified, standing behind the yellow crime scene tape. I once considered leaning forward and projectile-vomiting over the tape, just so I’d get noticed, but sanity prevailed. Then came my lucky break. A commercial for a new bubble bath product. Except no one ever saw me, covered by suds, reclining in an antique tub, because the FDA refused to OK the formula. The bubbles, it seemed, were herbaceous; probably contained poison ivy; my tush itched for days.